


Empty Tombs and Vacant Spaces

by NoLifePoints (Vesperbat)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Awkward Flirting, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Questionable Coping Methods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-27 23:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14437008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vesperbat/pseuds/NoLifePoints
Summary: Bakura's late shifts are usually boring and predictable, but when the hotel he works at loses Malik's reservation, he has to intervene. Things that aren't boring and predictable include potentially illegal motorcycle rides, personal crises, fraudulent palmistry, and -- above all -- Malik.





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m telling you, this is the right place!”

Bakura straightened up from his countertop slump, which he had maintained undisturbed for the past hour. He wasn’t sure if he even covered his own wage on a night like this, exorbitant drinks notwithstanding. He had a full view of the lobby through the open, glass-laden architecture, but there hadn’t been anything worth watching out there, either. Until...

He leaned forward for a better look. Akemi stood at the counter and typed frantically, nodding her head over and over. He wondered how long she had been dealing with this customer before his mind had wandered back to reality. He also wondered how long it would be until she cried. But it was hard to hear the entire conversation from behind the counter, so he drifted to the front of the seating area and pretended to straighten the chairs.

“I don’t care if I’m not in your system,” said the foreigner, though his Japanese was incredibly smooth. Maybe not a tourist, then. If he was here on business, though, he wasn't dressed for it tonight. He looked more like he might be heading to a club – or even coming from one. Either way, he had plenty of energy left over. Waving a sheet of paper, he continued, “Look, I have the confirmation _right here_.”

“Y-yes, I see. Of course. I’m trying to get the manager, but she must be taking a call. She would definitely assign you a room, but I’m afraid we have no vacancies until-”

Bakura dropped the chair he was holding, which attracted a glance from Akemi. The customer turned to follow her gaze, but Bakura was already halfway cross the lobby. Seeing his face just confirmed what he already knew.

“Malik-kun!” he called, raising a hand and forcing his biggest smile. “It’s been a long time, Malik-kun!”

Both Akemi and Malik gaped as he joined them, though likely for very different reasons.

“Ah, Akemi-san, this is actually my friend,” Bakura explained, as airily as he could. He squeezed his hands behind his back to head off the trembling.

She glanced between them, wide-eyed. “Oh, um, really? That’s nice,” she said, asking none of the questions she obviously wanted to.

“It’s a pretty long story,” said Malik, smoothing his glower into a gentle smile – one Bakura had seen too much to let his guard down. “But I never expected to see you here, Bakura. It seems your hotel lost my reservation. I just got in from the airport a few hours ago, and I’m not sure what to do now.”

“Yes, I heard. I’m very sorry about that. Sometimes the new system causes problems.” It wasn’t hard to inject sympathy into his voice, even for Malik. No one wanted to step off an international flight and find out they had nowhere to go. Maybe that was why he added, “You know, my family has a spare room.”

Malik’s brows rose. “Are you suggesting I stay with you?”

That _was_ what he had suggested, wasn’t it? Bakura bit back the surge of panic and said, “Of course, if you want to. Maybe tomorrow we can get this hotel issue sorted out.”

Malik nodded. “You’re right. It’s probably easier that way. Plus, it’ll be nice to catch up, right? After so long...” His smile sharpened. “This must be fate.”

Bakura didn’t have the best feeling about that, but it was too late to take it back now. He could always ditch him after they left, but of course he couldn’t really. Even if he had it in his heart, Malik could always return to the hotel and make the clerks' lives hell.

And… there was something else, too, though Bakura couldn’t define it. Maybe it was the same mysterious force that drove him to force his eyes back open even when he craved rest from the bottom of his heart – when there was nothing else stopping him. He never knew why he was doing it, and he always regretted it afterward, but in that moment, he could do nothing else. He _had_ to.

Right now, Malik had that kind of appeal. Tonight, Bakura should have gone home, kicked off his shoes, and fallen directly into bed. He knew that wasn’t going to happen.

He could live with that.

“It’s settled,” he said. “Here, I have to stay a little longer, but I can make you some coffee on the house.”

After bidding Akemi a good night, they retired to the alcove of the coffee shop, and Bakura started in on Malik’s cappuccino.

“Friends, huh?” said Malik, stretching out at a nearby table. “You learn something new every day.”

“I was improvising,” said Bakura, focusing on the steam wand.

“You’re not bad. I could almost believe you actually liked me.”

Bakura shrugged, shoulders tight. “I’ve had plenty of practice. You’ve gotten better, it looks like.”

“I couldn’t have been too bad before,” he said, raising one hand theatrically. “You all bought it. Then again, maybe that says more about you than me.”

“Maybe it does.” Bakura shoved the cappuccino across the table and collapsed into the chair across from Malik.

“Hanging out on the clock?” asked Malik, sipping cautiously at the burning liquid.

“The manager isn’t around,” said Bakura, shrugging again. Even if she were, he could probably still get away with it. He could get away with a lot of things here. “I close up in fifteen minutes, anyway.”

“Fair enough.” After two or three attempts at patience, he gave up and took a gulp, which made Bakura wince. He gave no visible reaction to the heat, but he did smirk at Bakura. “But you always seemed like more of a good kid than that.”

“Did I?” It was almost amusing. What did Malik know about _him_? He leaned in, voice dropping. “You should know, Malik-kun... appearances can be deceiving.”

“I guess they can.” He gazed at Bakura over his mug. “Maybe you’re more interesting than I thought you would be.”

“Hm.” Bakura’s hands tightened beneath the table. “If you’re comparing me to the other Bakura, maybe not that interesting.”

“… right,” Malik said, stiffening, if only a little. If Bakura’s attention weren't entirely focused on him right now, he might have missed it. “Wasn’t really thinking about him.”

Did Malik have any tells when he lied? Bakura wasn't sure. He had lied so much before, it was hard to recall truths to compare them to. Besides, lying with a straight face was easy, once you got used to it.

Bakura must have stared just a little too long, because Malik dropped his gaze to his coffee. His wavering reflection danced in the dim overhead light. “I’m not too interested in things that are gone," he said.

Distantly, Bakura realized that the person who probably knew the most in the world about the other Bakura was sitting right across from him, and he could ask him anything. Anything at all. Whether he’d answer would be another story, but he could ask – if he wanted to.

 _Did_ he want to?

Lie or not, maybe Malik had the right idea. Maybe some graves were better left undisturbed. And maybe, just this once, the more interesting thing was right here in the physical.


	2. Chapter 2

“So… Malik… what brings you to Japan?” Now that they were alone, drifting through the parking lot, Bakura dropped the honorific. There didn’t seem to be much point.

“Some big auto festival,” Malik said, an eagerness in his voice that Bakura had never heard before. “Starts in a couple of days. They’re going to have a _huge_ motorcycle display.”

Bakura blinked. “Oh, you like that kind of thing?”

Maybe _this_ was what Malik was like when he was genuine. It was a hard thing to fake, that kind of sparkle. Bakura wondered if he sounded like that when he talked about tabletop.

Or… maybe it was just another lie.

“Yeah, I love it," Malik said. "I could fuck around with bikes all day.”

“Honda-kun, too. Well, it’s his job, though – fixing them. I don’t think he loves that part.” Bakura said it without thinking, and part of him protested. Why should he tell Malik about his friends? Malik didn’t deserve to know about them. He probably didn’t even want to.

And yet, Malik’s eyes widened. “Really? He can fix bikes?”

Bakura nodded. “He can fix cars, too. He owns a bike himself, actually..”

Slowing his gait, Malik said, “Huh. He has surprisingly good taste. At least, maybe. What kind of bike?”

“I... don’t know,” said Bakura, rubbing the back of his neck. “Um… it’s tan and black?”

“That’s helpful. Really narrows it down.”

Bakura’s cheeks colored. “Anyway, he seems to really love that thing. I’ve ridden it a couple of times – with him driving, of course.”

Malik halted. Turning, he clapped his hands. “Then you know how to lean and stuff?”

“I mean, I guess...” He didn’t want to oversell it. Impressing Malik for the sake of it was not high on his to do list.

“Good, because we’re riding mine to wherever it is you live.” Now Malik skipped ahead, darting toward the end of the lot.

“Wait, what?” Bakura jumped. As he ran after Malik, he called, “You have a bike _here_?” But there it was, waiting like a panther in the shadows. Lamplight glinted on its dark, chromatic sinews.

“It’s not my actual bike, of course. Not half as good as she is. Not half bad, though.” Malik slapped the seat with affection usually reserved for an amorous lover. Clearly this was no mere beast.

“But...” Bakura frowned, pointing to the side of the bike. “But there’s only one helmet. That’s illegal, not to mention-”

Malik hopped into the seat side-saddle and tossed the helmet at Bakura, laughing as he scrambled to catch it. “That’s cute. You know I’ve done way worse in this country.”

Bakura folded his arms, though it was awkward to do around the helmet. “We should just take the train. If you got hurt-”

“Aww, you’d care? I’m touched, but I’m not going to get hurt.”

“You _could_.” Bakura clutched the helmet tighter, glaring at him. “And I’m not heartless.”

“No. You’re a good boy after all.” Malik pulled his duffel bag into his lap and pulled out a second helmet.

“You-” Bakura wanted to throw the rental helmet back at him. At his face, probably.

“ _This_ I could bring. It’s custom.” Malik tugged his helmet on, strapped the duffel bag to the back of the bike, and swung his leg over the side. “Any problems now?”

“… this is probably still illegal,” Bakura muttered, climbing on behind him. “Honda knows all the rules. Where you can and can’t do it.”

“Yeah. I’m not Honda.” The bike purred to life as Malik turned the key, and Bakura prepared himself for the first lurch forward, but they stayed put.

“… hey. Bakura. You have to hang on tighter than that.”

If the ride had been longer than twenty minutes, Bakura might have died, figuratively _or_ literally. Malik drove alarmingly fast, or maybe it just felt that way on a bike like this. Like it or not, Bakura clung like a child, eyes squeezed shut against the wind unless he absolutely had to open them. Malik shouted back occasionally, asking about the turns he should take.

At long last, they turned down Bakura’s road, and the question became, “Which house is yours?” He stowed the helmet and jumped off the bike the moment the engine ceased, hoping the redness of his face would fade before he had to turn around and face Malik. He had to try the key three times, his hands shook so badly. Luckily, Malik was too busy unstrapping his bag to see.

Honda was one thing, but pressing up against _Malik_? So he was pretty. And warm. So Bakura could smell the cologne on his neck, the faint spice of myrrh, after he pulled his helmet off. None of that should matter, even if Malik weren’t… Malik. Not when you had a boyfriend.

Who, in all likelihood, would be _pissed_ if he knew about this. Not that Bakura had done anything wrong, but he understood the principle. He couldn’t even recall the last time he had done this with Honda, and he was much more willing to go to bat for that friendship.

Oh, well. Some things were better left undisclosed and undisturbed. That was the philosophy for the night, wasn’t it? Hopefully Malik would be out of his house by tomorrow. In the meantime, Bakura pushed the door open, whispered, “I’m home,” and headed for the kitchen. He put the kettle on and called, “Bedroom’s on the left if you want to put your stuff down. I’ll make some tea.”

“Suit yourself,” Malik called back. “Just had coffee.”

Not a very courteous guest, then. Big surprise.  
  
Malik did accept some lemon cookies, which he crunched idly at the kitchen table. “This place is pretty dusty.”  
  
“Sorry,” said Bakura, sliding into a seat and blowing on his cup. If Malik wasn’t going to drink it, he was. It was hot and sweet and laden with milk and quite possibly the exact thing he needed. “My maid is under the weather.”  
  
Malik snorted as he bit into his cookie. Forcing the bite down, he said, “You have a maid? How rich are you?” 

Bakura giggled. “Just kidding. We’re not rich at all. I wouldn’t say we’re poor, but... dad spends all his spare money on travel these days.”  
  
“So he won’t be home to meet your handsome foreign friend, I suppose.”  
  
“Who knows _when_ he’ll be home.” Bakura was starting to sulk, and he knew it. Somehow, though, he couldn’t bring himself to care. If Malik wanted to make fun of him over this, let him. It was probably better than pity.  
  
Instead, though, Malik gestured at him with a cookie and said, “Oh, well. Dads aren’t shit. My point is, that room you have me in looks like nobody’s touched it in ten years.”

“Nobody really does. I kinda have to prioritize, so...” Clearing his throat, Bakura latched on to the first subject change that popped into his head. “That used to be my room, actually.”  
  
Malik’s brows furrowed. “Your room? Then… where do you sleep now?”  
  
“Amane’s room,” said Bakura, draining his cup. “Or, her old room, I guess. Mine now.”  
  
The furrow deepened. “Huh? Amane?”  
  
“Oh!” Bakura laughed. Of course he wouldn’t know. “Sorry. My sister. She passed away when I was little – a car wreck. Mom, too.”  
  
“And... you sleep in her old room.” Malik stared now, cookies forgotten on his plate.  
  
“Yeah. I guess dad couldn’t get me to quit going in there at night, so he just stopped trying. Then he let me move my stuff in.” Bakura shrugged. “It’s been years now.”  
  
Malik shook his head, and when he spoke again, his voice was strangely soft. “You’re strange, Bakura.”  
  
Bakura matched his softness. “Could I be something else?”  
  
“I guess that’s fair enough,” Malik allowed. “Trying to be normal is pointless, anyway.”  
  
“Yeah.” Bakura’s gaze fell. He ran a finger down the inside, disturbing the perfect ring of brown that his tea had left there. It occurred to him that he wasn’t exactly alone, as far as this _one_ thing was concerned. “I’m sure... it must be the same for you.” Malik started to answer, but a ringtone emanated from Bakura’s pocket. 

“Ah-!” Bakura jumped in his seat, knocking his cup over. He narrowly saved it from crashing to the floor and pulled out his phone, glancing at it. His eyes widened. “Sorry. I need to take this.”

Bakura leaned against the kitchen wall and answered the phone. He had to smile as he indulged in the familiarity of Haruki’s greeting. Butterflies. Malik stared at him, a peculiar expression on his face, but Bakura didn’t care what he looked like. “Hey,” he said, “how are you?”

And Haruki said, “Fine.”

An awkward silence fell, and the butterflies in Bakura’s stomach took on a decidedly more erratic path. “That’s good!” The sentences slipped out one after another. “So... what’s up? You’re calling kind of late. Not that I mind, of course. Not at all. You know I’m usually up.”

Another pause, and then, “Can we meet? I know it’s late now, but- sometime in the next couple of days. It’s important.”

Bakura glanced at Malik and rolled potential responses over his tongue. This wasn’t the first time he had turned down a date. “I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be free. Something came up. I’ll try...”

“Seriously? Even now?” Haruki expelled a breath and said, “You know what? Let’s just do it. I don’t think we should see each other any more.”

“Not… see each other?” Had... he heard correctly?

“Yes. I want to break up with you.”

“But… why?” Bakura squeezed an arm around his side, wishing that he could sink back into himself and disappear, but that had never been within his control. He only seemed to miss the moments he wanted to experience. Here and now, everything was sharp and clear and unbearably real. “I know things have been kind of-”

“‘Kind of?’ I never know what mood you’re going to be in, or when you’re going to cancel. I can’t rely on anything.”

Bakura gripped the phone. “I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“Are you? Does it even matter to you? You’re ‘kind of’ self-absorbed.”

Tears burned in Bakura’s eyes. What could he even say? He could lay out all his traumas, his daily struggles, but he couldn’t really _explain_. Not in a way that this carefree photography student, with family and friends and routines so painfully ordinary it almost hurt to think about, would ever understand. Maybe that was why he had liked him in the first place: because he was normal.

Bakura wasn’t normal.

“Are you even listening?” asked Haruki. This was the voice that made him so happy before. Now it only hurt.

“Fine! Fine, if that’s what you want!” snapped Bakura, groping for a match – something to burn the place down on his way out. His gaze fell on Malik, who tried not to meet it. “Just so you know,” he added, “I have another guy here tonight. That’s why I’m too busy for you. So go. I don’t need you.”

Malik snapped to attention, no longer bothering to hide his interest. Shrinking back against the wall, Bakura tried to plan his next move, but he didn’t have to. With a snort, Haruki said, “Yeah, right. As if you could manage two.”

The line went dead, and Bakura slid down to the floor, curling up. He didn’t want to cry anymore. He didn’t want to do anything. The butterflies had incinerated, lying in a pile of motionless ash. He should apologize for dragging Malik into this, for making him listen… but he wasn’t going to apologize to anyone right now.

“So.” Malik’s bare feet hardly made a sound as he approached. “You’re… gay?”

Bakura lifted his head, momentarily stunned. “Oh. We’re doing this now?” He took a deep breath, almost glad to have this wellspring of irritation to focus on. “Yes. Of course. It’s not a secret.”

“… oh.” Malik loitered there, staring down at him.

Bakura dropped his head back to his knees and closed his eyes. “I’m also single. Again.”

Malik settled beside him. “Guess it would be pretty shitty of me to swoop in on the rebound, huh.”

Bakura swung his head up again, scrutinizing him. Evidently Malik wasn’t going to let him sulk in peace. “You know,” he said, “I think that’s the most consideration you’ve ever shown me.”

“What can I say?” Malik grinned, not a hint of shame in his bearing. “Some situations are more delicate than others.”

“Yeah. Right.” To Bakura’s surprise, he felt like smiling, too. Just a little.

“That was something to behold, though. You don’t even get that angry at me.” Malik held his chin in mock consideration. “I’m a little jealous, honestly.”

“Oh? You want me to yell at you?” Bakura’s smile resurfaced, bleak. “That could be arranged.”

“Wouldn’t want you to get hoarse.” Of course. Such a _considerate_ person. “Still… I’m curious. What did he say?”

“Apparently I’m self-absorbed,” said Bakura, “and I’m not very reliable. I’d like to know what mood I’m going to be in on a given day, too.”

“Is that all?” Malik scoffed. “You’re in good company.”

“Has… this happened to you?”

Malik paused, really thinking this time. “Not exactly. You know, I think the most meaningful relationship I’ve had with another man was with the other Bakura.”

“… ouch.” There was more sympathy in the word than Bakura anticipated. Even if Malik had chosen the Ring Spirit’s company – even if those choices barely recognized Bakura as a person–

“Yeah,” Malik said, voice soft, and Bakura understood. Like getting blood from a stone. What would Bakura’s life have been like if the Ring Spirit had cared for him? If they’d had a bond worth nurturing? But he didn’t think there had been any nurturing left in that other Bakura. He didn’t think there was much left at all.

Malik shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “He’s not my problem anymore, or yours.”

Bakura didn’t bother to point out that things could keep being problems well after they were gone. He was pretty sure Malik understood that better than anyone. He just nodded. “Guess my ex isn’t my problem anymore, either.”

Ex. He let the twinge in his chest pass.

Malik shrugged. He was close enough that Bakura could feel the heat of his side, and he wanted to lean into it. He didn’t. “Whatever,” Malik said. “He won’t know what he’s missing.”

Forgotten dates? Unexpected tears? A partner who once dissociated through half of a museum tour? Bakura laughed, a firecracker burst. “You say that like you know what it means.”

“Maybe I’d like to.”

Only because he didn’t. That was the catch. It was better to be mysterious. Once the curiosity was satisfied – once the cracks beneath the surface could be discerned – things would inevitably change. Only his friends had defied that pattern, and even then, he was gentle with them. He kept the necessary distance.

But Malik forged ahead, eyes lighting. “There’s a whole world out here, you know? I’ll be the first to admit, there’s still a lot of stuff I don’t know. Yet.”

“Well, yes-”

“Escalators were a little off-putting, but if I got the hang of that, I’m pretty sure I can manage anything.”

“What-?” Bakura blinked, letting his mind catch up to Malik. “Oh! I guess there is… a lot, isn’t there? I can’t imagine growing up like that.”

Malik waved him off. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is – we have the world. The entire world. Did you know, I had to learn not to put metal in a microwave the hard way? Can you imagine?”

“Oh, no.” Again and again, in spite of himself, Bakura sympathized. “You’re not the only one.”

“Yeah, but you did it when you were, like, five. It doesn’t matter. This world has _ice cream_.”

Bakura nodded, sobered. “And cream puffs. Which I’m going to need a lot of. First thing in the morning.”

Malik cocked his head, as if trying to identify an unfamiliar melody. “Cream puffs…”

“No cream puffs? That’s no good! I’ll have to show you–” Bakura covered his mouth.

“Show me what?” Malik smiled, with his mouth and his eyes and his words, and he was- radiant.

It hit Bakura like a spring gale, throwing open the shutters and suffusing him with light. He couldn’t look away. “My… favorite place,” he said, attempting to wrest the shutters closed again. The room was too bright, his heart exposed to the elements.

Malik jumped to his feet. “Then let’s go!”

“It’s after one AM!” Bakura caught Malik’s arm, willing him to stay.

He stayed.

Bakura’s fingers tensed, tempted by the smoothness of his skin, and even as he let go, he knew it was no use. The window was open. It would not shut again.

“There are a lot of twenty-four hour places in Japan,” Malik grumbled.

“If you want ramen or omurice, sure,” said Bakura. Before Malik could decide that he did, in fact, want either, Bakura added, “If you do, you can go on your own.”

Malik huffed. “Fine. What was I… oh.” He sat up a little, casting a sidelong glance at Bakura. “Right. I meant that. That I’d like to get to know you.”

“You think you meant it.”

“I did.” Malik’s eyes darted between Bakura and his own hand, hovering uncertainly in the air.

“… you really don’t know what you’re doing,” Bakura said, shaking his head.

Malik glared. “I told you–”

“Don’t be mad. It’s cute.” Bakura caught Malik’s forgotten hand, flipping it over in his lap. “Fine, then. Let’s get to know each other.”

“What are you...”

Bakura examined Malik’s palm, tracing the lines with his finger. He paused over one particularly deep groove, pressing in gently with the tip of his nail. “This one means… something.”

“Something,” echoed Malik, skeptical. He remained quiet after that, but a hint of his customary amusement was creeping back into his expression, twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Bakura rifled through his memory for relevant facts of palmistry – or, failing that, whatever he could make up. He came up empty-handed. He just kept tracing the lines, letting his fingertips memorize the paths of Malik’s destiny, even if he couldn’t understand them. He could understand the texture of his skin. Its warmth.

_It means I want this._

_It means I want to be stupid._

_It means I want you._

He closed his eyes, letting his head sink down until his cheek brushed Malik’s shoulder. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he whispered. “I’m tired. I just want to stay like this.”

Malik squeezed his hand. “Then stay.”

  



	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes Malik had to steel himself before he opened his eyes, to make himself believe that he was really somewhere else – that he hadn’t been dragged below the earth in his sleep, thrust back into a life that no longer existed. The image of that place was carved into his memory.

Today, though, he woke with the image of Bakura behind his eyelids and conjured those slender fingers into his own. Across his lips. Down his chest. He knew exactly what he would see when he rose: not this. So he kept his eyes shut tight against the dim and lifeless house, more crypt than resting place, and let the soft glow of desire wash over him.

They only held hands, which lasted just until Bakura decided he’d had enough and ambled back to his room. It might have been an hour. After that, Malik slept on the couch, because the room wasn’t his, and it never would be.

He was a momentary comfort, which suited him just fine. He _liked_  those. If he could indulge in cheap, greasy fries and tear down vacant roads at double the speed limit, Bakura could indulge in him.

He should have indulged more. In truth, Bakura knew what he was doing, and it didn’t include Malik Ishtar. Silly to imagine that it might.

Maybe if Malik knew, too – but he didn’t. Not yet. Even then, Bakura was turning out to be every bit as unpredictable as his ex had suggested. In a fun way, granted. In a way that Malik liked. But he could fuck this up.

It was within the realm of possibility.

He wished he could see what lay behind Bakura’s eyelids.

Malik rolled over, burying his face in the cushion. He had better things to do than worry about this all day. Maybe he _could_ go for some omurice. He’d take the pretty little rental for a spin, and Bakura wouldn’t have to worry about getting pulled over because he wouldn’t be on it in the first place.

He was caught half between this thought and another surge of sleep when a loud thud rocketed him into an upright position. He glanced around, dazed, as the banging continued, and realized that someone was at the door. They didn't seem to be slowing, either. Was Bakura really sleeping through this?

Scowling, Malik got to his feet, and the floor was cold. The whole house was. He would have to remember to steal a blanket from the bed next time. He crossed the room and yanked the door open, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I’m trying to sleep in here.”

The man on the other side of the door stared at Malik like he’d opened the door to hell itself, which he evidently had not been expecting. “Are you kidding me?”

Malik’s brows rose. The reactions he got in Japan could be pronounced, but this was a little excessive. “Nope,” he said, “you definitely woke me up.”

“I cannot _believe_ … where is he? Where is Ryou?”

“Bakura..? He’s sleeping, too.” Something clicked in Malik’s brain, and he grinned, wide and vicious. “Oh. I get it.”

“Get what? Because I don’t get it at all,” the man said, teeth gritted. “Who are you?”

“A friend.” Malik gave him a once over. “Hm. He can do better.” He actually wasn’t bad, if painfully boring to Malik, with a blazer hanging off his lanky frame and chunky glasses poised on his nose. But that really wasn't the point. His mouth twisted like he wanted to speak, but Malik leaned in and cupped a hand around a stage whisper. “Shh. He had a rough night. Apparently someone said some pretty awful things to him. Even worse, he really liked the guy. Can’t imagine why.”

Haruki glared at Malik like he wanted to close his twitching hands around his throat, and Malik loved that look. Let him _try_. Then he reached into his pocket, and for a split second, Malik wondered if he really did have a fight on his hands. Malik took a deep breath, savoring the adrenaline flooding his brain like the air in his lungs. He was a coiled trap, ready to spring.

But when Haruki brought his clenched fist down, it wasn’t anywhere near Malik. A flash of silver struck the floor with a sharp clink. “Here’s his key. You can tell him that’s all I came for.”

Haruki slammed the door, and he was gone.

Malik shoved the adrenaline back down, the buildup with no release. It incensed him – this bastard, this coward, storming away and leaving Bakura to pick up the pieces. He couldn’t even stick around and fight about it. Who was self-absorbed, again? But hanging onto a feeling like this with nowhere to direct it was only asking for trouble, and it wasn’t the kind of trouble he felt like dealing with right now. He stilled himself, trying to align his breath with his heartbeat.

The effort proved futile. Someone coughed behind him, and he spun around, heart kicking back into high gear. It was Bakura, of course. He leaned against the wall in a shirt that reached his knees, a mussed braid hanging limply over his shoulder. He looked tired, tired, tired, like he had never slept in his life, even though he would have had to be in a coma to miss all of that. His gaze slid to Bakura’s legs.

No. These weren’t the details Malik could afford to focus on right now. He cleared his throat. “When did you..?”

Bakura shrugged. “Just now.”

“Right.” Malik crouched down, swiping the key from the floor, and held it out. “I believe this is yours.”

Bakura stayed right where he was, arms folded behind his back. “I’m off today. If you want, we could go back to the hotel, or any hotel. I’m sure you could find a room somewhere. Or...”

“Or..?” There was no keeping his heart in check now.

Bakura glanced at his feet. “Or you could hang on to that.”

Malik studied the tarnished silver key in the palm of his hand. Nodding, he slid it into his pocket. “Thought I was supposed to be considerate.”

Bakura smiled. He was exhausted. Exhausting. Malik went to him, and he nestled his face into Malik’s shoulder. “You are," he said. "In a way. Besides, has doing what you were supposed to ever gotten you anywhere?”

It was a good point. Impossible to argue. What he was supposed to do had never mattered, only what he _wanted_ to do. Right now, that was to find Bakura’s waist and pull him in and hold him so tight that there was no space left between them. Not even a little.

“Alright,” Malik said, “but don’t blame me if I turn out to be a bad decision.”

“I don’t want good decisions right now,” Bakura replied. He squeezed back, every bit as tight, and he felt so solid in Malik arm's. So real. “I want cream puffs.”


End file.
